Game of Thrones: Warlord
by Sundown15
Summary: The story of two brothers who are forced to choose between loyalty to their king, or loyalty to their House. Set in the years before and during Robert's Rebellion, it is a tale of love and war, loyalty and betrayal. While they do not play the game of the thrones, theirs is a far more deadly and costly one.
1. Lights in the Dark

****This is not an alternate history but a story parallel to ASOIAF. Many of the events in the recent history are alluded but never gone into great detail so this is my take on what happens in those events from the point of the view of my two Original Characters. For reference, this story begins sixteen years before Robert's Rebellion.****

Lord Marten Severus, Warlord of House Severus, knelt in the sept, his proud gold-flecked blue eyes red rimmed from lack of sleep. Dressed in a simple black velvet tunic and trousers, he looked more modest merchant than the warrior he was. At two and twenty, he was broad-shouldered and muscular, his ash blonde hair tied back from the hard, gaunt lines of his face by a simple crimson ribbon. A stubble of beard graced his typically clean-shaven face, the wear of the previous three days bearing down hard.

Bannerman to the current Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, he resided over his modest keep of Swordhall in the southern Westerlands. His title, the Warlord came from the Andals, given to the most successful of their warriors. Aegon the Conqueror knew of the prowess of the previous Warlords and allowed them to keep the honorific after the Field of Fire and gifted them their family bastard sword, Victory. Only the Warlord of Severus could wield the ancient blade, and Marten kept it a blood red sheath of leather in his hall.

"I pray to the Mother, deliver my wife from her sick bed and back into my arms. To the Smith, mend her so that she may well and healthy again, to hold our newborn sons in her arms. To the Crone, show me what I might to do help, anything at all." He whispered to the altars of the Seven. All the stories, he knew well; a man in dire need prays to the Gods upon which they take pity and answer his prayers. His loved one is saved and he rejoices and remains their faithful servant ever onward.

But no voice came from the heavens, no messenger from the Seven appeared like in the stories. So Marten prayed harder, ignoring his bloody knees. All knights bleed, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower had said on Bloodstone where the young Marten earned his spurs. Blood was the symbol of ultimate devotion and had since bled his share many times over. During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Marten had seen and spilled his share of blood.

"Warrior, give me the strength to save my beloved. Answer me this call and I swear, I will devote myself your cause for all my days. Please, just…please, my wife." He prayed aloud, staring into the stone effigy of the Warrior, sword in hand. There was only silence, the candle light dancing on the seven stone walls.

He clenched his hands to a fist, his knuckles bone white. Marten had come into this sept as devout as any in the power of the gods, those who watched and rewarded the faithful. For the previous day and a half, he had spent praying on his knees to each and every altar, ignoring food and water so that his devotion might show. But no one answered, the altars stayed silent.

When he arose, he was different, changed. Without another word uttered, he stormed from the sept and back into his keep, the castle of Swordhall. Servants awaited in the dark stone halls, their eyes averted as their lord stalked the corridors back to the upper chamber. A large oak and iron door barred his way. With an almost gingerly touch, he pushed the door open.

The room smelled of blood, hot and heavy that overpowered the scented candles. In the corner, the midwife was silently praying and the servants took away the bloody sheets to be burned. It was night time and the moon was full and bright, the turn of the new month.

But none of that mattered, his duties, his lands, his sons. Only his wife and the love he bore her kept him upright and focused.

"Are…they…well?" she whispered, her breaths ragged and sparse.

"They are, my lady." Was all he could say without breaking down. Food had been left for him and gone untouched for days, prompting old Maester Eldon to act. Sleepwine had helped somewhat but the end, he knew, was near and wanted his full faculties for what lay ahead. Laboring for nearly a day and a half, she had brought the twins into the world, lively and squalling. In that moment, Marten loved the boys with all his heart.

The fire had subsided when his wife's breathing came labored and the blood would not stop. It was clear soon after; she would not survive the night.

"Raise them, husband. Love them…be proud of them." She coughed, pale spittle falling from her thin lips. Marten dapped it away with a kerchief and smiled, nodding.

"I...I promise, my love." He managed, the words heavy and hard to bear. It brought comfort to her and that made him smile, a little thing but it was the world. She closed her eyes, a sad smile on her lips.

"I see them, Marten…so handsome. Knights, they are…and so proud…" her head rolled to the side as her last breath escaped her lips. Marten squeezed her hand tightly, hoping it would bestir some life in her. It was no good, she was gone and Marten was alone. The tears flowed and he sobbed, not caring that for his lost composure. He was the Warlord of Severus and he could not prevent his wife's passing. He had failed in his duties as a husband.

The squalling of the twins filtered down the hall, endless and tormenting. Hammering at his ears and mind, their cries beat at his heart like hammers on a barred door. Even the hushing of the midwife could not calm them, it was so fierce. Not bearing to let go of his wife, he allowed to carry on well into the night, the passage of time mattering nothing to him.

When the servants came to take away his wife, Marten could not say. They were swift and silent, draping a thin veil over her and wrapped it several times. Then came her banner, the pale shooting star crossing a white sword on a purple field. The Daynes of Starfall were an old and ancient Dornish House, famed warriors and wealthy. They had met by chance at the Maidenpool tourney, and the spark was there for all to see. Betrothed and married within the year, the same year the War of the Ninepenny kings had begun.

Ten thousand westermen, sailed to the Stepstones and a young squire named Marten Severus was among them. Close friends with Tywin, they had fought alongside the crown Prince Ayres II Targaryen. Bloodied and seasoned by war, they returned as knights and hailed as heroes. It was not until after the conclusion of the bloody Reyne-Tarbeck revolt that Marten, now the Warlord of Severus returned home. A year later, his sons had followed.

They lay the great banner reverently over her and carried his wife out. When the twins had fallen silent, he could not say either. His own banner, black and crimson split field beneath the white skull and sword hung over the mantle, a thousand years of history on the rich cloth. Victory or death, were the words of his House, hard and unforgiving. This had not been a battle of swords and spears, but of man against the will of the gods.

This would not go unanswered.

He left the room that smelled of blood and incense. Out in the hall, the servants and men at arms bowed in silence at the passing of their lady. Stalking down the hall, he stopped at the boy's room and looked in and saw his newborn sons in their cribs, freshly scrubbed and wrapped in clean sheets. Only their tiny soft breaths would be heard.

Without a word closed their door and headed down the long hall.

His knights and men at arms draped their colors in black, and hoisted the banner of Starfall in the yard. Torches lit the ground and the great stone pyre awaited, the smiths in their leather aprons at the ready. Gingerly, the honor guard carried his wife to the pyre and placed her on the top tier and stepped off. Septon Crasch addressed the somber party.

"So we live and so we must pass on, into the next—" He was cut off when two knights seized him roughly. Crasch protested as he was dragged to Lord Marten, his face a mask of stone.

"You will leave this night, Septon. Do not return whilst I or my sons rule here."

"M-m-my lord, please! Have I offended you?!" he stammered. Around his neck, he wore a small crystal on a leather thong. Tearing it from his neck, Marten crushed it under his boot heel.

"Your gods have no place here old man. See him off my lands." He dismissed with a wave of his hand and the knights dragged the begging septon off into the night. Grabbing a torch from the ground, he approached the pyre wordlessly. Behind him, the smiths drew a long piece of unforged steel from a folded black cloth. Marten pressed the torch to the pyre, igniting the oils and the flame spread. The flames licked at the tier and his wife's shrouded corpse.

When the fire was roaring, the smiths pressed the steel into the fire, muttering incantations in High Valyrian. As a boy, Marten had been schooled in languages and could speak the tongue of Old Valyria as well as any Grand Maester. Glowing white hot, the steel was pulled and taken to the forge where it was beaten and folded, beaten and folded more. It would be hours before the work was complete but that was of little consequence.

Now he would mourn his dear wife, the flames burning away both the shroud and the man who had so fervently prayed to the Seven his whole life. As the flames rose into the night sky, he made his way back to the sept that had remained deaf to his prayers. He ripped his sword from its sheath on his hip and swung for the nearest altar, shattering the Mother in two. From there, he made his way through the small sept, hacking and hammering the altars into pieces, roaring as he did.

The steel was ruined now, its edge chipped from biting to the stone.

"You took my beloved. That is the last you shall ever from me." He spoke to the shattered effigies and left.


	2. The Hunters and the Hunt

Marek eyed the elk and slowly drew his bow back, sighting in on the great beast. The forest of quiet, soldier pines and sentinels as far as the eye could see. Birds sang in the distance, their chirps echoing in the forest.

His arrows were fletched with hawk feathers, made just a few days ago. It was the second week of their trial, and Marek had felled many deer and bird, even catching a few rabbits whose pelts now warmed his feet. Jason had done well also, keeping himself fed and clothed with a great boar he had killed their first day out. At two and ten, both boys were tall and strong, their ash blonde hair held back by strips of cured leather.

The elk raised his head, its large black eyes darting to and from. Marek loosed his arrow, letting it fly. An arrow shot past his head, dead on with his own. Both took the elk down, piercing its heart. Jason bounded over him and raced to the elk, Marek on his heels.

"Whoever pulls his arrow first, claims the game!" shouted Jason, jumping over a fallen tree.

"Cheater! I saw it first, find your own!" Marek shouted back. Jason laughed.

"I did, its right here!" reaching the elk, he stopped to pull his arrow. A stick cracked him across the hand, forcing him back. Marek stood over him, stick raised to a high guard.

"Winner takes the game, loser finds his own." He challenged, smirking. He knew his brother well, and Jason nodded. Quick as a cat, he scooped up his own stick and launched himself at Marek. They exchanged a dozen blows, their sticks clacking across the woods. Both boys were fast and held each other at bay, Marek driving Jason back then the opposite for a time. Attacking from on high, Marek went for Jason's shoulder but was countered across his stomach and swept to the ground.

Jason leveled his stick at Marek's throat.

"Yield." He smirked.

"You didn't beat me, Jason. As always, you lost your footing." Marek swept his stick under his brother's legs, catching him the shins. As he went down, Marek sprung up and kicked his brother's stick away and stood victorious. Sweat beaded their heads, and a drop went down Marek's spine, tingling him.

Jason began to laugh and extended his hand upwards. Marek joined him and hauled him up.

"Come, we'll both need each to get this back to camp. Father will be pleased once we return." Jason said as he tossed his stick away. Slinging their bows over their backs, they tied the elk on their stretcher and carried the great beast back to their hideaway. Though they loved their father dearly, Marek found he could not share in his brother's enthusiasm. On their fifth name day, their father had taken to the yard and thrust tourney swords in their hands.

"You will be warriors." he had said simply and left, leaving them to the tutelage of grizzled Ser Lyonel Ruttiger, the master-of-arms of Swordhall. They had drilled endlessly in sword, shield, lance and bow until it was second nature. Then they were given to the master of horse, grey haired Sumner Hill and rode endlessly, fought from horseback and tended to the mounts' every need. They learned to feed and shoe, saddle and bridle them while Master Hill looked on silently.

Nearly a month afterwards was spent on a fishing cog out of Lannisport, mending nets and acting as rigging monkeys. They stank of fish every night and their hands blistered from the ropes but soon they mastered the sailor's trade. Jason had not taken to the ocean life as Marek did, reveling in the salty spray and the odd simplicity of working the ships. At times, he yearned to be back aboard such a vessel, bound for the East and parts unknown.

Once, they had even been caught in a freak autumn storm and the mainsail was nearly ripped from its holding. Only the timely climb and intervention by the boys had saved the ship, earning them to the respect of the captain and crew. From there it was to the forges of Swordhall, where they beat hot steel into swords, linked mail and forged plate. As their final test, both were told to create their own swords or they would have none at all. Each weapon was fine a blade as any man could ask for.

Now they were in the forests of Swordhall, south of Lannisport. Lord Marten had ridden them out, told them to dismount and return in two weeks' time. Marek could not share in his affections as his brother, because they simply weren't there. Their Lord father rarely spoke to them unless to give them a command or to chide them in their sword work, and even meals went without his presence. In truth, being out here was a welcome release from the keep, and from their father.

Their camp was small but functional, two tents made from deer pelts around a fire pit. Both worked diligently and silently, setting the dead elk over the pit. Jason lit the fire while Marek went for his knife and began to skin the game. The hide was tough, but hours at the sword ensured his cuts were true and clean, severing the particles of skin from the meat below. After it was gutted, the entrails removed, Marek's was bloody from hand to elbow. Blood had never bothered Marek, whether an animals or his own. The hide was hung on the rack for curing later and Jason began to work the spit, slowly roasting the meat.

"Do you think Father will ever let us see the capital? I hear it is a splendid city, full of mummers and knights and the princes! Imagine, we might see the royal family." Jason said, his eyes glowing in the fire light.

"The only way we will see the capital is if Father orders us to be pot scrubbers or chamber maids." Marek replied.

"Do not speak of him that way. He is raising us to be men, our own men." Jason defended their father as he had always done. Twins they might have been, but they could not have been more different. Jason claimed he was the elder, coming into the world first and Marek had long since let it be. Where Jason obeyed and was the dutiful son, Marek was the rebel and questioned at will. Of course, there were never answers but it not deter him from doing so.

"No, the smiths, tanners and sailors of the Westerlands raised us. Ser Lyonel is more of a father than our own is. I do not ask that he treat us as children, only to take some interest in us other than our assigned duties."

Jason scoffed.

"He is the Warlord and his duties require him to be elsewhere. Why, even Lord Tywin relies on Father while he is serving as Hand. After all, he did save the Hand's life during the war." He beamed at the accomplishments, ever proud of their sire.

"Yes, and he fought beside Ser Barristan the Bold as he cut his way through the Golden Company to slay Maelys the Monstrous. I know the stories as well as you, brother. It is not the stories I want but for him to look at us as his sons, not two more soldiers."

"We are the heirs of Severus, the next Warlords. Our line goes back to the Andals chieftains, the great Falx Severus who slew the Hooded King of the Banefort! A thousand years of history rest on him and on us when the times comes. Whomever proves himself worthy will wield Victory, the blade of a warrior. Father is preparing us, that is all." Victory was the pride of the house, the mark of the Warlord. They had only ever seen it unsheathed once, when a murderer was caught on their lands. Lord Marten himself had carried out the sentence, an old tradition from the days of the First Men.

"I do not need a history lesson." Arguing with Jason was useless so Marek let it go, taking his turn on the spit. The elk was roasting now, the meat sizzling and crackling in the fire.

"When father returns from Duskendale, I will speak to him and you will have your answers." Jason said as he cut a portion from the roasted elk and savored the cooked meat. The ravens had been swift, flying straight from King's Landing. The letter was sealed in gold wax and stamped with the seal of the Hand. In a fit of madness, Lord Denys of Duskendale seized King Aerys and held him hostage. Lord Marten had answered the call as many great lords did.

At the head of two thousand foot and some five hundred knights, Lord Marten had raced to Duskendale to lay siege to the town. Many of the other bannermen had their armies at Duskendale, encircling the town from land and sea. Now, it was only a matter of time before the matter was resolved and Lord Tywin would mount the traitor's heads on spikes.

"When he returns, I suspect he will only send us away again." Marek replied, cutting off a small portion of roasted elk for himself. His words angered Jason.

"You always feel the need to question him, why? He is our lord and sire, we do as he says."

Marek chewed thoughtfully.

"Why, brother. I question because it is what he has taught us; to be our own men."


	3. Hard Truths

Marek and Jason stood back to back, blunted swords in hand. Around them five of their father's knights closed around them, armored in mail and half helms. Above them, Lord Marten watched in silence, clad in steel grey breast plate and his shadowcat fur draped around him. His eyes betrayed nothing.

The first knight came with an overhead strike, Marek easily parrying and countering to his exposed knee, dropping the older man to the dirt. Jason launched himself at two foes, driving one back while deflecting the attack of the other. Turning aside one blade, he fired off a back kick that caught the knight behind him in the stomach, doubling him over. With a flourish, he parried another strike, thrust and crunched the knights shoulder guard, denting the steel plate. He dropped his sword in defeat, yielding to the young Jason.

Marek now faced the final two on his own, sweat beading from his forehead. Pressing the moment, he launched a flurry of blows, each strike perfect and precise. The fury of the attack drove the knights back who could break through the storm of steel. One of them experienced a moment of courage and charged Marek, who knocked his outstretched blade and swept his knee from under him, crashing him face down into the dirt. Picking up the discarded tourney sword, Marek held one blade out in front and the other above him, ready to fight once more.

"Enough!" called his father, putting an end to the melee. Jason and Marek lowered their swords and faced the Lord Father, grim and stoic. His ash blonde hair had gone gray at the sides, with a close cropped beard to match. His sons were four and ten now, almost men grown, strong and lean. Around them, the knights picked themselves up and returned to their barracks.

"Rest tonight, for on the morrow you will depart for Starfall. Lord Criston has agreed to take you both as squires. In time, perhaps you may distinguish yourselves for knighthood. I shall look for you on the morrow. Ser Harlen, take charge." He turned and departed, his cloak billowing behind him.

Marek could stomach it no longer. Tossing his swords to Jason, he ran off into the keep. The halls were dimly lit and cold, his sweat tingling against his spine. Bounding up the great steps to the inner keep where the Warlord's Seat was, the great stone tower that dominated Swordhall castle. Two great ironwood doors led to his Lord Father's sanctum, a large room devoid of warmth but filled with tomes, scrolls and weapon racks. In the corner sat a suit of black armor, lamellar shoulder plates, and a death's head flanked by Valyrian sphinxes wrought in pale silver. The helm was topped with a silver skull crest with a long crimson plume, gathering dust. It was his father's armor, passed down from his father before him. Only the heir of Severus would be permitted to done it, as tradition dictated.

Lord Marten had taken his great oaken seat behind his table, carved from ebony and decorated with grinning skulls.

"Father, why do you send us off like cattle?" Marek demanded, the heat rising in him. Marten sifted through his books and glanced upwards before returning to his pages.

"It is time you and your brother to become knights, should Lord Damon deem you worthy."

"And do you deem us worthy, not of knighthood but to be your sons?" Marek spat.

"You are both my sons, nothing can ever change that." Replied Lord Marten.

"Did Mother's death harden you towards your blood so much?" No sooner had the words left him, did Marek realize there was no going back. His father's pale blue eyes met his and held, never blinking or moving. To his credit, Marek stared right back.

"You will not speak of your mother, boy. You did not know her." his face darkened, his eyes with it.

"How could we, when you never mention a word of her. To know anything, we must confront the kitchen staff or your knights for a mere description of the women who bore us.

"The woman who died giving you and your brother life. Never forget that." He added icily.

"How can we? You remind us of it every time you send us away. Why do you hate us so?" Marek saw the hurt in his father's eyes, and knew he had wounded him. He stood and crossed the table.

"I do not hate you nor Jason, Marek." It stunned him, as it was the first time he had ever called them by name. "What you learn at the hands of the smiths, the fisheries, the hunters and horse masters are the tools by which you will succeed. If something is given to you, it can be taken away. You and your brother have been given nothing; all you know has been hard earned, in blood and sweat. I take no credit for your accomplishments, they are not mine to grant." It was the most Marek had ever heard his father speak and he did so softly, as a man would speak to his son.

"Whatever you make of this life, whether they be vows or promises, they are yours alone. Did you ever wonder we never kept a sept here in?" he asked. Marek only nodded.

"It is because the world claims our lives are gifts from the gods, the Seven. Like any gift, it can be bestowed or taken from you. The night your mother died was the night I stopped believing in the Seven. They took her from me, despite all the hours of prayer and begging. Any god that takes a woman as loving as your mother shall not my worship nor my sons."

"Father..I—" Marek began.

"You will be squired at Starfall, the House of your mother. There you will learn more of your mother than I can ever say. From the Daynes, you will hone and perfect what it is to be a warrior. In time, you and your brother will return here." Then he placed his hand on his shoulder and sent Marek off wordlessly.

He did not remember going to his room or being packing. It was evenfall when his brother found him, his trunk sealed.

"What did father tell you?" he asked, taking the chair across from him.

"We're to learn from the Daynes, and about our mother."

Jason's eyes widened.

"He spoke of mother?" he asked fervently. Marek shook his head and saw Jason's disappointment.

"No, only that we would learn more from her family than by staying here. He means well, brother. I see that now, you were right." He admitted, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Jason nodded.

"Then we best get a good night's meal and rest, brother. We've a long road ahead of us."


	4. Warm Welcomes

Rising from the plains beneath the Red Mountains, the castle of Starfall was a sight to behold. Pale stone bleached from centuries in the sun, its walls contrasted the red and gold plains on which it was built. Its crowning structure was the Palestone Sword, the great tower that overlooked the Summer Sea. The walls were said to be forty feet thick and had never fallen to invaders, its iron topped battlements dull and sturdy from which lined a dozen purple banners

Marek and Jason rode at the head of the small train, laden with supplies for the journey, small gifts for their new hosts and of course, their arms and armor. While Jason rode a spirited white courser, its mane as black as sin, Marek's mount was the exact invert, black-skinned with a snowy white main. Upon leaving Swordhall, they had taken the road through the Reach which lasted nearly two weeks, hasty compared to taking the Goldroad and then the Kingsroad to the east.

Ahead, a small column of riders in black and purple finery rode out to meet them. Over their heads fluttered the purple banner of the Daynes. At their head rode a knight in silver plate, adorned with a deep indigo cloak. Lifting the visor of his sallet helm, he wore the typical features of a stony Dornishman, fair skinned with dark hair and brown eyes, a serious look on his hatchet face.

"Who would approach Starfall from the Red Mountains? It is perilous, even for men as armed as you?" he asked in a tone that broached suspicion.

"Ser, I am Jason Severus and this is my brother Marek. We come from Swordhall in the Westerlands upon instruction of our father, the Warlord Marten Severus. Your worthy lord is expecting us." Jason replied courteously.

The knight nodded.

"Well met, I am Ser Jared Santagar, Captain of Guards. Come, our Lord is expected you and has prepared a small welcome in your home." He turned his mount around, allowing Marek and Jason to fall in with the knights. Marek leaned over to Jason.

"And I had heard all Dornishmen were all prickly as hedgehogs. I did not expect such a welcome." He whispered.

"We are Dornish on our mother's side, do not forget. Perhaps they can tell from our exceedingly noble appearance." Jason replied back.

"You will find that while we are Dornish, many of our customs are unchanged to the rest of Westeros. Our closeness to the rest of the realm ensures we are not so…alien to visitors. As well, you will no lack of courtesy or refinement in Starfall." Ser Jared chimed in. "Your mother was a welcome sight in these halls, as our Lord's youngest daughter. We were aggrieved to hear of her passing." He bowed his head in reverence.

"Thank you, ser. Your words are most welcome." Jason replied solemnly. To himself, Marek thought that perhaps here, he might learn more about his mother than from his own father. His words still echoed in his head, but it did make the journey any easier. _Your accomplishments are your own._ In truth, he had been apprehensive about squiring for a Dornish lord, even for one as esteemed as the Daynes of Starfall. Ancient, wealthy and honorable, the Daynes were among the principal houses sworn to the Martells of Sunspear and boasted many great heroes across the centuries.

Most notable and current was Ser Arthur Dayne, sworn brother to the Kingsguard of King Aerys. He was also titled the Sword of the Morning, an office of high esteem in both Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms, awarded to only the greatest of knights of Starfall. All this he had learned from the countless books in the maester's chambers, spending as much time there as he did in the training yard or off another 'quest,' as his brother had liken to call them.

Through the gates the procession went and the yard opened to meet them. The sounds of steel on steel clanked across the yard as a pair of armored men fought with blunted sword. A smith beat his hammer and stables were alive with the famous sand steeds, small mounts but unmatched in speed and stamina. Leading to the inner yard of the keep was in iron portcullis, decorated with wrought falling stars. All along the battlements flew the Starfall banner, the cloths fluttering in the wind.

"Where will we quartered, Ser?" asked Marek, eyeing the vast courtyard in admiration.

"Two rooms in the keep itself have been prepared, but that will addressed by Lord Criston at the feast." Ser Jared called for a halt and dismounted, Marek and Jason following suit. A flock of stable boys flew to the mounts but the boys politely rebuffed them.

"We will see to our own mounts." Marek said simply and led his horse to the stable to be corralled. Jason took the stable next to him, all under the eye of Ser Jared. He nodded approvingly. They were then led into the keep itself, passing under the portcullis to a small yard dominated by a large pale rock, misshapen and ugly. At once, Marek knew its significance and could not stop himself. He nudged Jason.

"The Fallen Star, the rock from which Dawn was forged by the first Daynes. It was here the first Sword of the Morning was born." Marek whispered excitedly. Before Jason could respond, a voice cut through the air.

"You are well read, young Marek. Now, if you could tell me who the first Sword of the Morning was, I will be truly impressed." Lord Triston Dayne was forty, broad-shouldered and black of hair divided by a streak of silver. High cheek bones accented his aquiline features and when he smiled, his lilac eyes glittered.

Marek thought hard, running through the books and tomes he had read over the years.

"Do not make a fool of us, brother." Whispered Jason.

"Randyll Dayne, called Brightstar and was the grandfather to Samwell Dayne who burned Oldtown for defying him." He recalled at last. Lord Criston nodded approvingly and approached them, both boys going to one knee. Dressed in pale white and red finery with a cloak of indigo, he reached them in quick strides.

"You may rise, lads. Your father has spoken well of you, and I do expect the same whilst you are my charges. My knights will train you in the ways of war, to perfect your martial skills so that one day, you will be worthy of being knights yourself. Only the best will we have from you and nothing less will do. Now come, share in the food and drink of my House." He gestured for them to head through the great redwood doors, filigreed in red gold. Inside, the Great Hall was as a large as Swordhall's own, if not more richly decorated. The heraldry of Starfall hung superior at the head of the hall, over the seat of the Lord, a great ebony chair carved in the likeness of the Palestone Tower.

The commotion in the hall was great as long tables were being set, and Marek could smell the cooking wafting in from the kitchens. Serving girls flurried around the room, laying plates and cups out, arranging chairs and benches for the numerous guests. At Swordhall, there were rarely visitors to entertain so neither Marek nor Jason had ever seen such a preparation. Several of the serving girls eyed the new boys, doe eyed and slender and giggled behind their hands.

Jason smiled at them widely while Marek nodded courteously. They giggled some more and ran off to their duties. At the end of hall, a woman entered the room accompanied by a grey-robed maester. The woman was of an age with the Lord Criston, her long raven black hair flowing past her shoulders. Her face was rounded and kind but her eyes were dark and glittered with curiosity.

"My Lady Serana," Lord Criston greeted her. "These are the squires from the West. May I present Marek and Jason Severus, son of Marten, the Lord of Swordhall." Both boys went to their knees.

"Well met, young squires. You may rise. Be welcome in our halls." She replied curtly. They rose and met her gaze. "You will have no end of squires here, My Lord. Have they met the others, pray?" she asked.

"All introductions will be made at the feast, My Lady. No doubt they will all service exceptionally." He replied, gesturing to the boys.

"Time will tell all, My Lord." She walked past them without a glance. Lord Criston continued onwards and led up the stairs to the floor above. He stopped at their rooms, large and spacious with separate beds along with chests of drawers for the wardrobes.

"The feast will begin in an hour. Dress appropriate and be on time. Truancy makes for a poor introduction." He turned on his heel and left the boys to their rooms. Silently, they chose their beds and unpacked their belongings. First came their swords; they had been taught to always look after your weapon first for there was no telling when it would be used. Each brother placed his blade in easy reach as had long been drilled into them. As for their clothes, they chose black breeches and high boots of soft tooled leather and silken tunics with silver scrollwork.

When they returned downstairs an hour later as instructed, it seemed a different world altogether. The hall was loud with speech and laughter, filled with all manner of guests, both knight and lord alike. The long tables were covered in plates and drinking cups and the back walls were lined with servants. Overhead, the iron chandeliers were lit as were the torches on the all. On all corners, the indigo banner of the Daynes shone darkly in the light.

"Father would never permit something like this." Whispered Jason.

"I doubt Father would even know what to do at something like this." Replied Marek, eying the guests and noting their colors and heraldry. He saw the golden hand of Allyrion, the three scorpions of Qorgyle, Santagar's spotted leopard and the vulture of Blackmont, all dotted throughout the halls. Then he saw the sun and spear of the Martells and knew this was no mere feast but an event of great import.

Then the procession arrived and all in attendance stood. As the boys were of a height with most of the men here, they did not need to seek a better view. At the front came the Lord Criston, resplendent in a black and indigo tunic patterned with his sigil. On his arm was a young woman, lithe but strikingly beautiful with black hair and the olive features of the sandy Dornish. She was dressed in a pale red and yellow dress that trailed the floor and cinched with a leather belt decorated with moonstones. Her beauty was displayed for all to see and her eyes swept the room.

They were followed by the Lady Serana, dressed in her purple finery slashed with gold trimmings and on her arm was another olive-skinned Dornishman, dressed in pale red and gold, black hair swept back from the handsome lines of his face. They were siblings, for that much Marek deduced but could not place who they were.

Then came a man who needed no introduction as Marek knew full well who he was. A flowing white cloak fell from his shoulders, and he wore the indigo finery of his house. Tall, black haired with a lord's grace, he was none other than Ser Arthur Dayne. This is what a knight should look like, Marek thought as he glided through the procession like ship through calm waters. But the lady he accompanied put every man and woman to shame. Her raven black hair marked her for a Dayne, her eyes were a haunting violet that shone in the light. Pale with a heart-shaped face, she wore a half smile like she was privy to some joke that only she was aware of.

Marek reminded himself to breathe. He cursed himself for not knowing her name and swore he learn it before the evening was done.

When all had taken their places of honor on the dais, the feast began in earnest. Musicians played while a fool in red and pink motely danced on his hands while giving rude names to the lords and ladies. Servers brought out large platters of smoked boar's ribs s smothered in smoky herbs and garlic, buttered snails, pheasant in a savory red sauce, thick cuts of lamb followed by salmon cooked in an almond crust. Marek helped himself to the ribs and a cup of sweet red while Jason filled his plate with salmon and snails. Bread was aplenty which Marek used to mop up the leftover sauce on his plate. Having no wish to engorge himself and make a proper fool, he stayed his hand from any more food.

"Who are the salty Dornish up there?" he asked Jason, who seemed to know nearly everyone there by name. Jason set his cup down, and hid a belch behind his hand.

"Oberyn Martell, to hear the servants tell. That's his sister, Elia. They're a rare sight, I say." He eyed the young girl until Marek clouted him in the back of the head. "Gossip is they are here seeking eligible proposals; lords, ladies and knights alike. Unusual but fitting for the scions of House Martell."

His eyes kept drifting to the dark-haired beauty on the dais, who ate only sparingly and jested with her brother. Thinking it strange that a Kingsguard would be so far from his duties in the capital, he began wondering just what Arthur Dayne was doing here. Was there some errand he was on for King Aerys, or was it simply to participate in this great feast? He watched as the finely dressed Dornishman approach the dais and bow to the lady and exchange words.

Whatever was said, it made the lady smile and the Dornishman returned to his bench. He leaned to his sister and whispered something before raising his cup to Ser Arthur. The gesture was returned.

Soon the dancing began, and the lords with their ladies took to the floor. It all made for a loud and color display with Lord Criston leading his wife in the dance. He moved well and always had a smile for his wife who, despite her dour introduction, seemed very happy. Then Marek stood and Jason caught his arm.

"Where do you think you're off to?" he asked, his words slurring from the wine.

"For a dance." He replied simply and headed for the dais. Before he reached the steps, she had caught his eyes and he swallowed hard. His master at arms had been Ser Lyonel Ruttiger, a stout old knight who had taught him his first lesson in swordsmanship; never drop your eyes. It seemed apt to apply that here. Marek held her gaze, approached her and bowed.

"My Lady, would you honor me with a dance?" he said the words but did not believe they actually left his mouth. Much to his surprise, she stood.

"Of course, ser." She replied in a fluid voice that Marek liked immediately. He took her outstretched hand and led them to the floor. They bowed to each in turn and joined in the steps, Marek remembering as he went along. Having been schooled in courtesy by the stewardess of Swordhall, Perriane Clifton, Marek had also learned the steps to many waltzes.

"You dance well, ser." She commented, smiling as she did.

"As you do, my Lady. And I am no ser." He added.

"You will be." Her reply sent him soaring and he could not hold back a grin. He spun and caught her, almost bowling over another dancing couple. Quickly regaining his feet, he led them around the floor once more as the song ended. The room broke into applause, Marek joining.

"Marek." He said aloud.

"Beg pardon?" she asked.

"My name is Marek, of House Severus." He bowed to her.

"I was wondering when we would get to that." She laughed and extended her hand. He took it and kissed it. "I am Ashara, of House Dayne." She smiled wonderfully and Marek felt his neck redden. Before he could respond, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a cup was thrust into his hand.

"It seems the new squire is graceful on the floor as he is in the yard. Care for a dance all our own?" asked Oberyn Martell, his mouth upturned in a half smile. He was as tall as Marek, dark eyed with a presence that could not be denied.

"Prince Oberyn, well met. The yard is always open as I recall, though I fear I would not give you much contest."

"And why, pray tell, is that?" when he smiled, it reminded Marek of a snake bearing its fangs.

"I have had entirely too much to drink, it shames me to say." Ashara giggled quietly, and Oberyn chuckled.

"And here I always drink before a fight." He took a swallow of his cup, a dark Dornish red.


	5. First Blood

The yard rang to the song of steel, and Marek was bearing down hard on his opponent. Clad in mail and plate with a sallet helm that narrowed his view, he still commanded the advantage. Like most mornings over the previous year, he was facing Jaremy Morrigen, a squire in service to Ser Willem Dalt. A quick and sly lad, he was determined to outfight and outfight Marek at every turn. Every morning, he was welcomed to try.

Turning away a thrust, Marek countercut and followed with a riposte but hit only air. He pivoted to meet what might have hamstrung him if the blades were real steel and danced away. Jaremy now pressed his attack and rained down blow after blow; right, left, upswing, overhand. Beneath his own helm, he saw that Jaremy was seething. Dancing around the yard, Marek deflected every blow and was striking out twice what he was receiving. Every match gave him a clearer picture of just what kind of swordsman young Jaremy was; skilled and strong but as temperate as a wild stallion. There was a pattern to his fighting but when that failed him, he resorted to brute strength which he had plenty of; he was tall and broad across the shoulders, muscled like an ox and stood a full head taller than Marek and his brother.

Then he sensed his opening and took it, turning the blade away and disarmed him, smashing his fingers. He shouted and recoiled, gripping his injured hand.

"Match! The day goes to young Marek. Well fought, lad." Said Ser Jared Santagar who had observed the fight from the side. He and the other knights and squires were gathered for the match as they were frequently were. In the year since arriving, Marek and Jason had become the promise of the yard. While he was here, his twin was off on the grounds training with his lance under the eye of Ser Lyle Hood.

"Yes, well fought. For a motherless westermen." Spat Jaremy, having removed his helm, a mop of shaggy brown hair matted by sweat clinging to his head.

"Were you suckled too much, Morrigen? You always seem to bring up mothers when you suffer defeat. I doubt very much your own mother would appreciate such talk." Marek replied, taking off his own helm and returning the blunted sword to the rack. The knights stifled laughter and turned away.

"Courtesies between foes is expected of knights, you two." Chided Ser Jared. The big knight was stern but fair and unrelenting in drilling the code and ethics of knighthood into his squires. Morrigen's face was dark but nodded silently. He stalked off to the rack and returned his sword and helm. As he walked past Marek, he whispered.

"You will answer for this slight, boy. That, I promise you." Then he was gone. Cold Sweat beaded down his head but Marek ignored it, his mind fixed on the threat by the defeated squire. It had not been the first time he had bested Morrigen but today had been different; it was his sixteenth name day and had swaggered into the yard full of himself. Marek had put an end to that. Silently, he had wished that Lord Criston and his daughter Ashara had been present for the match. However, they had taken the journey to King's Landing for the wedding of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen to the Princess Elia Martell of Sunspear. He remembered her and her brother Oberyn from the previous year, sharp tongued but likeable.

The basin was filled with cold water which Marek splashed on his face and neck, knowing the day was not yet. Ser Jared would be expecting him in the jousting yard before long so to the stables he went. There he found his mount, his trusted mount named Daemon, black as midnight with a mane of snow. Once he was saddled and readied, he sped off out of the stables for the tourney grounds. The wind was warm and the Dornish sun was a ball of molten gold which Marek had since become accustomed to.

The Westerlands were warm, true enough but it was nothing compared to the oft-told sun of Dorne that had helped defeat every invader in its history. Even the Red Mountains that rested in the backdrop of Starfall had a majesty all their own, one that he could never deny.

Starfall's tourney ground was large and expansive, flanked by great viewing stands on both sides. A dummy had been set in the center of the grounds, laden with sandbags and a heavy oaken shield. Jason was already there, mounted and armored. He raised the visor of his rounded greathelm.

"It seems you make friends wherever you go brother." He joked.

"You know me, Jason. Friendly and courteous to the bone." He replied. This elicited a chuckle from the gathered knights and squires. They were all known to him and well, for they had all sparred and rode together, hunted and hawked over the last year.

"If how you beat Morrigen is courtesy, I would hate to see your discourtesy." Joked Ser Manfrey Vaith, a knight a few years older than the boys.

"That, ser, I reserve for only—"

"SEVERUS! I CALL YOU OUT!" roared a voice behind them. Marek wheeled his mount to see Jaremy Morrigen racing at him at full gallop, his retinue of lickspittles close behind him. Even from a distance, Marek knew bared steel when he saw it.

"Your sword, ser." Marek said simply, looking at Manfrey. Wordlessly, he drew his longsword and passed it hilt first to Marek. Feeling the steel in his hands, Marek drew comfort from it and knew that so long he was armed, there was nothing this Jaremy Morrigen could do.

"Marek, this is stupid. We are all squires and we cannot duel to the death. Lord Criston would have us expelled." Jason warned, though Marek could tell otherwise. He too, had faced the bullying and scorn from the arrogant lad and wished to see him brought low. Still, Marek was forced to agree.

"So I won't kill him. Do you think he will be so accommodating?" he put the spurs to his mount and rode out to meet them, Jason and Manfrey in tow. Halfway across the field, the parties came to a halt.

"It is a good a time as any to make you answer, boy. Lord Criston is away in King's Landing and will not interfere. Neither will his knights." He glared at Manfrey who merely laughed.

"You are a fool, little man. But a brave one nonetheless. Very well, this shall be a duel to first blood drawn from the torso so honor will be satisfied, agreed?"

"Aye." Agreed both Marek and Jaremy. They dismounted and handed their reins off. Jason took the mount and led it off. Manfrey climbed off and removed his helm from his saddle. It was a rounded great helm with a narrow slit for vision, decorated with a yellow and orange flowing wreath. He handed it to Marek who accepted it gratefully. Next came a shield, made of soft pine that was ideal for catching an axe or a sword.

"You have fought him before; you know his strengths and weaknesses." Manfrey said, his voice low. Across the way, Morrigen was helmed and had his shield up waiting.

"Aye, and he knows mine." Replied Marek.

"No," replied the knight, a knowing smile on his face. "He doesn't."

Since they had first taken to the yard here, Ser Manfrey had kept a close watch on the boys. He noted their sword and footwork, their riding and jousting. He had been the only one to realize that Marek had not been fighting with his full potential; that is not to say he had been weak but that he was intentionally holding back.

"You let them dance and give them a show, but that is all it is. You hold a sword as if you were born with it. Your Master at Arms may have shown you one but you knew from the start how to swing it. A rare gift you have, lad. Use it well." He had said. Such a comment would have angered his father greatly. Gifts bestowed were ones that could be taken away but nonetheless, Marek took the comment well.

The blood was up in Marek, his first duel at hand. He understood the implications if he lost; honor was at stake and he would not lose a shred fighting Morrigen. As well, there was always the danger that this duel might go too far and one of them might up end a corpse.

He felt the excitement rise in him even more at the thought.

With sword and shield raised, Marek crossed the grass and met Jaremy who was already circling. Both were clad in mail and leather, steel greaves and armguards, which protected them but allowed for speed. As Marek knew he could, Morrigen attacked first with an overhead strike. Marek caught it on his shield and turned it away, countering with a thrust that Jaremy danced away from. Shield up, Marek pursued him and slashed sideways and overhand, each blow being stopped and countered. The blows jarred up Marek's arm but it only spurned him on; he truly loved nothin more than the dance of swords.

He drove him back with a series of thrusts and slashes, cuts and counters, until he had Morrigen breathing hard. Each swing of his slower but still managed to raise his shield to protect himself. With a roar, Marek splintered the shield and burst the bindings. Iron bandings and pine shards flew, but Jaremy would not relent.

Taking his longsword in a two handed grip, he summoned his strength and renewed the attack. Marek chucked his shield away and moved like a panther, graceful but savage. The steel kissed and rang out and Marek could not deny that Morrigen could fight even with an injured hand. Marek turned away a slash but was met with the crossguard of Jaremy's blade, cutting his cheek and the blood flowed. He staggered back, his face bloody.

Morrigen grinned and whirled his sword above his head. With a fury he did not know was in him, Marek roared and lunged, bringing his sword up in an underhanded strike. He knocked Morrigen's blade away and drove his shoulder into him. He followed with a sideways slash that opened his leather jerkin and split the chainmail beneath. Blood flowed from between the links and Jaremy dropped to the ground with a groan. He did not remember raising the blade again to finish him when the world went dark. A dull pain ached in the back of his head and faded away as the light went out in the world.


	6. The Kingswood

The cold water woke him with a jolt, drenching him to the bone. Jason stood over him, empty pail in hand and a lazy smile on his face.

"Welcome back, brother. It seems you won." He helped him up, ignoring the pain in his face. Marek put a hand to his cheek and came away with water and blood.

"A scar, most likely. Perhaps this will earn you that knighthood, maybe the Lady Ashara will grant you the spurs herself." Jason sourly.

The remark make Marek feel shamed, oddly enough. He wiped the blood on his trousers and turned for his mount.

"The lady Ashara will nothing of this, Jason. Promise me." He said angrily. Though he had won, Marek knew it had been in poor circumstances. Around him, the knights and squires who had witnessed it nodded in approval; he had knocked the arrogant squire down and won his first duel. Ser Manfrey was beaming and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Well done, lad. I daresay he will not challenging anyone in the yard for a time." Then a realization dawned on him.

"Did I kill him?" he asked, aghast. Manfrey laughed.

"No but he will carry that scar on his belly for the rest of his days. Though I think you will bear one as well, lad. Not to worry, the girls love a man with a scar on his face." He handed him a cloth to hold to his face.

"Who hit me?" asked Marek, the back of his head a dull ache. He had a feeling he already knew.

"Ah, your brother. When it seemed that you were about to kill Morrigen, he stepped in with your discarded shield and wacked you but good. Just a bump, I wager. You will not be going the way of Baelor Breakspear." He laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. He could not share in the jest as Jason was not with him, having left on his mount rather suddenly. Despite the pain, he grabbed and mounted his own horse to follow him.

He caught up with him back in the yard, devoid of all occupants. Jason angrily dismounted and confronted Marek as he climbed off.

"You're a fool! What madness possessed you to a duel?" he shouted.

"Me, a fool? If Morrigen had the slightest sense in that thick head, he would not have dared to call me out. Besides, I won, dear brother. What has angered you so?" he was genuinely confused.

"Yes, you won. How honorable for you, now all the talk will be of how you bested the bully of the yard and won your first duel. Word will no doubt reach Father and what will he say?" Jason was red in the face and neck, angrier than Marek had ever seen him.

"Most likely he will say "Why did I not kill him, for the slight on our honor?" I defended him as well as myself. Can you not see that?" Of course he did, Marek realized. Jason was angered because it was Marek, the younger by a half a minute, who defended the family. "Jason, I never th—" he began.

Jason pushed him.

"No, you never think! You always do whatever you damn well please and bugger the consequences! Dancing with the Lady Ashara, jesting and carousing those Martells and then slighting me to curry favor with Father. Train and earn your spurs with someone else, for you are no brother of mine." He stormed off into the keep, leaving Marek silent and bewildered.

For days afterwards, Marek did not see his brother. The only word he had of him was what he would gleam from the other squires and knights, about how well he rode or how he bested some foe in the yard. Angered by Jason's words, he did not seek him out and threw himself into the sword and horse. Ser Jared Santagar had not only been drilling him in the sword but the mace and axe, morningstar and lance. He contemplated writing a letter to Father but ultimately decided against it; the quarrels of his children held no interest to him, only their success in their training.

Hours in the yard had strengthened his body and the Dornish sun had streaked his hair golden. At times, he didn't recognize himself as he battered one opponent to the next. In a match against Ser Jared, he bested him in mere moments and was the talk of the keep. His father could never be counted on to be proud but Jason always could, offering a jest or a grin of approval.

Now, his companions were the bruises and welts raised from the yard. When he fell asleep that night, wineskin in hand, he dreamt of a shrouded woman being fetched from the sea. Only the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs were heard, and every time he called out, Marek tasted only blood.

Lord Criston had returned sometime in the night and a servant woke him. Marek quickly dressing himself, he hurried to the solar where the Lord awaited him. Surrounded by his knights and attendants, Criston made a grim looking figure. In the corner, he spied Jason but did not meet his eyes.

"..root these outlaws wherever they hide." Said one knight.

"So the King has commanded. A force is to be raised at once, from the Stormlands, Westerlands and here. Make no mistake, the Kingswood Brotherhood are a formidable one."

"Har! They are brigands, my Lord. We will sort them out in good order."

"Who will have the command, my Lord?" asked Ser Jared, eyes ringed by dark bags.

"Ser Gerold Hightower himself, along with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan Selmy." Replied Lord Criston. A murmur went through the room.

"It would seem the King takes this threat quite seriously, enough to warrant the three best swords of the Kingsguard." Said Jared, scratching his beard.

"Indeed, he would. Outlaws that close to the capital makes them all uneasy. Our force will be five hundred levies with one hundred knights. The ravens will be dispatched in the morning and preparations will begin at dawn. Dismissed." Criston waved them away and they filed from the chamber. Marek remained against the wall as the room emptied. He did not see Jason anywhere.

"Do not think I cannot see you, young Marek. Come closer, sit." Criston beckoned to a chair. He did as he was bid.

"Thank you, my Lord." He replied.

"Ser Jared has told me only good tidings of you and your brother. I expected nothing less. Now, this business with Jaremy Morrigen. Did he draw his steel first?" he leaned his close, his purple eyes afire in the candlelight. Marek nodded.

"Then good, you were within your rights to accept the duel. Well fought, from what I understand. However, you must know that every action, from the lowest innkeep to the highest lord has equal consequence."

"But I beat him, bloodied and sent Morrigen running. What else could come from this?" Marek said.

"Retribution. His father is Lord Brynden Morrigen, vain and proud where slights are concerned. Do not think you have heard the last of this duel, young Marek. Heed this warning, not just in this but for all things. What we do in life carries down through the years and ages. Take for instance, the period of history we call The Blackfyre Rebellions. What started as a mere recognition of skill began the greatest threat to the realm we have ever known.

"Aegon the Unworthy, in all his mistakes and gluttony, did what he thought was right. Gifting the sword of the Targaryen kings to a man best suited to wield it, Daemon Waters. What were his true intention, none may say and all will speculate. This one moment, this simple action would plague the realm for nearly six decades. The lesson is that a snowfall may start an avalanche; just a duel may start a war." Silence filled the chamber, and Lord Criston leaned back.

"You and your brother will be accompanying Ser Jared and their host to the Kingswood. All your skills you have learned will be put to the test. A knight is no true knight until he has tasted of war, know this. Are you ready, young Marek?"

"I am, my Lord." He replied simply. Criston turned to this parchment and quill.

"We shall see." With a wave of his hand, Criston dismissed him and Marek found himself striding back to his chambers. A sense of both elation and distress overcame him as he prepared his travel clothes for the next day. He chose a subtle crimson and black doublet with the sword and skull badge of his house embroidered in silver thread a loose pair of cotton breeches and his favored pair of boots gifted from a Braavosi captain he once knew. Then came his sword and belt, his prized possession. The day he forged it had been the proudest of his life at that point and he relished the scrape of steel on leather as he drew it. Its blade was as wide as palm across with three full incisors, its crossguard of simple steel and a hilt of tooled red leather. The pommel was weighted lead, rounded off to balance out the heavy steel. When the blade was in his hand, there was no man he needed to fear.

When he rode out tomorrow, Marek would put the sword and his skills to the ultimate test.

He would be going into battle for the first time.


	7. Song of Steel

Somewhere in the column, Marek knew Jason was riding with them. As squire to Ser Manfrey Santagar, who held command of the rear guard, he would be everywhere the knight was. As for Marek, he was alongside Ser Jared who had personally requested him for the campaign. Five hundred made for a quick march, he had found when they crossed the Red Mountain pass and were through the Prince's Pass within a fortnight. With the Red Mountains behind, they were able to make good time despite the baggage train, camp followers, footmen, archers and the hundred knights in tow. They were not cumbersome and gluttonous so as to not eat the countryside bare.

Ser Jared had been given command of the outriders, a dozen knights and a fifty mounted lancers. He surmised that they most likely did not need them but was not about to take chances. They passed orchards, farmlands and inns, nestled in small outcroppings amongst the soldier pines and sentinel trees. Most of the locals welcomed them and threw garlands as they passed, praising them and shouting encouragement. King Aerys had announced the campaign to all corners of the realm, to declare that outlaws and robber knights would not be tolerated.

Marek had never seen the king but had listened to enough of the stories around Swordhall; his father Marten had fought alongside him and the Lord Hand in the War on the Stepstones, and made a good account of himself. At the end of the fighting, he had seen Lord Tywin bestow the knighthood upon the Crown Prince and knew there was never a closer pair of friends.

'A good king protects the realm', he had heard Lord Criston say, 'and King Aerys is doing just that.' Marek did not know what made a good king but this seemed to make sense.

For days they followed the road north and then when the column reached Bitterbridge, they turned east for the Kingswood. Few villages were mapped and as a result, the column would stumble onto small communities, hesitant to welcome the presence of an army. It was another fortnight and two days of rain before they arrived at the royal hunting ground.

In a clearing off the road, a small but fortified camp was readied. Stakes had been planted on the perimeter and soldiers patrolled them. At the entrance sat the royal banner of House Targaryen, the red three headed dragon on a black field. The column proceeded through and dispersed to take what room remained in the camp.

Several tents were erected in the center, banners flying above. Marek spotted several he knew; Crakehall, Brax, Vikary, Connington, Grandison, Fell and Corbray. Above the largest of the tents was the pure white banner of the Kingsguard.

Ser Jared dismounted and Marek did the same, taking both horses away. As a squire, it fell to him to ready the tent, clean Ser's armor and weapons as well as his own. Spotting his brother leading his horse to the other end of the camp, Marek lowered his head and sullenly walked on.

He had not meant to anger his brother and estrange him, he had simple done what he thought was right. The honor of one's house came before all else, did it not? Such a lesson he had gleamed from their father with their upbringing, such as it was. Why couldn't Jason see that as well? As he staked the ground for the tent, a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see a bullnecked and thickset boy in a blue and grey surcoat, displaying the Twin Towers of Frey. With a face that was weak-chinned and stringy brown hair, Marek immediately took a dislike.

"You are in my way, young Frey." He said to him.

"And are you going to move me, boy?" snarled the Frey, bringing himself closer to Marek. He stood half a head taller and had hands like two great hams.

"If I must." Marek thrust the last stake in the ground when the Frey heaved the stake up and tossed it away in one swift movement.

"Fetch it back." Frey pointed to where it landed, a good ten feet away.

"Might I have your name?" Marek stood up. The big squire laughed, spittle spraying as he did.

"You must be a recent arrival or you are just as stupid as you look. Merrett Frey, scion of Lord Walder—" Marek smashed his fist into mouth, splitting his lip. Following with an uppercut that caught him in the nose, he drove the big Frey back. Finally, Merrett managed a respite and charged, knocking him down and landing on his chest. Raising his hands to deflect the heavy blows, Marek's forearms took the brunt until Merrett slowed for a mere moment. Grabbing his meaty right forearm, Marek twisted and rolled, coming on top of the Frey, pinned his arm and smashed his elbow to his face.

The next punch was directly between his eyes, which then rolled over white. It was not the first time he was thankful for his evenings as a deckhand, learning to fight the way native to the gutters and winesinks of the world. He left Merrett Frey dazed on the ground and his knuckles were scraped and bloody.

"I cannot say I have ever seen someone bested in such a fashion. Nor was someone so deserving as our dear Merrett." Said a golden haired squire in red and gold finery. He sat on a crate, finishing off an apple before tossing it away. His eyes were a pale green and flecked with gold, set in a flawless handsome face.

"He will be wanting more before long, his sort always do." Marek replied, approaching the squire.

"You did not learn to fight like that under good Ser Jared, nor any knight." The golden boy stood and was of a height with Marek.

"Sailors and deckhands who wanted to best a boy and earn some coin. Paid for my supper every night, it did." Marek offered his hand. "Marek Severus." The golden boy took it and shook strongly.

"Jaime Lannister." He smiled brilliantly.

The following morning a light rain had begun to fall. Having already been up before most of the camp, Marek quietly set about preparing both food and Ser Jared's armor; a dark steel breastplate, greaves, pauldrons and lobstered gauntlets with a shirt of ring mail that was freshly scoured. The great destrier, a beast called Hammer was awaiting Marek as he secured the saddle. The routine was almost second nature as he had done it countless times both in Starfall and on the road to the Kingswood. In a way, he took comfort in the routine, the security of the familiar surroundings.

Looking back over the previous two years, he had taken to his training well and it was showing. His wiry arms grew lean, his chest and shoulders had broadened and hours in the saddle had given him legs of iron. Constant practice in the yard had melted his stomach to reveal the muscles underneath, the envy of the serving women at Starfall.

Likewise, his brother had changed considerably when he caught a glimpse of him. Jason had hardened both body and mind and had let his beard grow out and shortened his hair as if in answer to his brothers' clean shaven and neck length hair. From the talk around the camp, Jason had begun the campaign by dueling three knights and besting them all, ransoming them back their horses and armor. Even his master, Ser Manfrey did little to curtail him and did not dare seem to trouble him with his duties.

As he saddled Hammer, the camp was alive with activity and the word was on everyone's lips; they were marching today. Arthur Dayne himself would be leading the column deep into the Kingswood to root out the Brotherhood while Ser Barristan brought a second force from King's Landing. Between them, the outlaws would be crushed. It seemed a good plan to Marek, who was determined to learn all he could about campaigning from the greatest knights in the realm. This was history, and Marek Severus would claim his place in it.

Then the trumpets blew and the drums began to beat, heralding the column to form. Ser Jared appeared, clad in his gleaming plate and mail. His sword pommel glittered with a large emerald, cut the shape of a seven-pointed star. His piety was well known, especially before battle.

"Has the Warrior blessed you with strength for the coming days, lad?" he asked as he took Hammer's reigns.

"I would not know, Ser. The Seven have never truly played a part in life." He admitted, feeling uncomfortable.

"Perhaps you should beseech them so they will, Marek. The Seven are the guiding hand by which he strive for victory in battle, contentment in life and peace in our dying breaths." He raised his bushy eyebrows as if to emphasize his meaning.

"I can promise you I will not be praying to anyone with my dying breath, only shouting that I will not be alone in my death." He turned for his own horse before Ser Jared could reply. Swinging himself into the saddle, he guided the horse into the gathering column of horses, pikemen, archers and outriders. At the head appeared Arthur Dayne, clad in gleaming white plate mounted on a snow white destrier. Over his shoulder peaked the hilt of Dawn, the famous greatsword carried by every previous Sword of the Morning.

"Men, today we ride not for ourselves but for the people of the realm." His voice carried across the mass array of men, earning instant silence. "Our duties are not just to our houses or our lords but to the ones we pass on the roads everyday; the farmers in their fields and the smiths in the forge. The fishers on their boats and the women in the homes, for them we ride. For them," he raised his pure white shield up, "We fight!" the resulting cheered carried throughout the forest, echoing leagues in every direction.

Marek added his voice to the roar, shouting himself hoarse. As if one great big beast, the column lurched forward and off into the dark, boding forests of the Kingswood.

It was hours later when they approached the village. It was small, no more than a dozen houses and abandoned. Ser Jared held command of the outriders, Marek at this side. The knight motioned for them to sweep into the village and begin the search. A rider was sent back to the column to inform Ser Arthur where he would deploy his host accordingly.

When an arrow flew by Ser Jared's mount, he shouted and ripped his sword from his scabbard. More arrows shot by, one taking a rider in the chest and his horse in the flank. One sprouted from a man's throat, blood seeping as he gurgled and fell backwards. Marek had been snatching sleep in the saddle when his mount reared up and nearly threw him

Ahead, a half dozen haggard men in boiled leather rushed from an empty sept, sporting fire hardened spears and pikes. Ripping his blade from its sheath, Marek put his spurs to his horse and joined in the charge. He snapped the visor of his helm down, narrowing his vision.

" _Starfall!_ " Shouted Jared as he cleaved through a man's helm, crunching the cheap iron and skull beneath it. More cries went up as battle was joined, and Marek smelled the coppery blood in the air. Steel kissed and men screamed from fury and pain, swore at their foe and called for their mothers. A spear jabbed up at Marek and he swung his blade, chopping the shaft in half but he did not stop to finish him. He kept riding as an arrow shot past him and another punched into his saddle, just inches from his leg. He saw a destrier kick a man in the face, reducing it to a red ruin. A knight was pulled off by three screaming bandits who fell on him with hoes and spears. Marek turned for the three and charged, sword raised above him. They turned at the last moment as he roared.

"Bastards!" he scattered them as he charged, joining their comrades in the bloody battle. He dismounted to check the wounded knight, a man he knew to be Ser Aron Yronwood. He was bleeding from multiple wounds, blood darkening his silver plate and black mail. Yet, he was still alive. As Marek went to drag him to safety, something told him to turn and he pivoted, turning away a bloodied spear A bandit whose face was blackened with soot spat at him and thrusted the razor sharp spearhead for his throat

Marek swung upwards and splintered the shaft then savagely kicked the bandit in the chest. He then buried two feet of steel into his belly, bringing him close enough to smell his hot, stale breath. The bandits blue eyes hardened then rolled up, all life sapping from in mere moment. _My first,_ he thought as he wrenched the blade free, the steel dripping with gore. A scream alerted him back to the fight and a hammer glanced off his pauldron, pain lancing into the shoulder. A great swell of man was bearing down on him, arms thick with muscle with a tangled red beard, eyes blazing in fury.

Sidestepping another blow, Marek chopped the shaft, taking the hammer and hand with it. As the outlaw screamed out in pain and grabbed his spurting stump, Marek opened his throat to the bone with a clean slice of his blade. Around him, the battle had turned against the outlaws, losing their momentary surprise. Most of the knights were still mounted while some had joined the fray on foot, blades swinging and axes felling their foemen at will. A dozen outlaws were already dead, blood pooling around their corpses.

From the woods came a disheartening cry as more outlaws appeared, this band better armed then their former. Iron and steel breastplates graced several of them, and castle forged steel swords waved over their heads. Mounted on a blood bay was a woman, young and fair with a bow and quiver. The White Fawn, Marek remembered the talk from the camps. He watched as she nocked and loosed an arrow, taking a knight in the throat. Her comrades charged the tired knights.

A white shadow appeared behind a house, flashing pale and then a streak of red. Arthur Dayne and his men finally reached the village and joined the battle. Dawn flashed, a sliver of sunlight and an outlaw fell cut down to the breastbone. Remembering the wounded Ser Aron, Marek sheathe his sword and with every ounce of strength, hefted him on the back of his horse and gave it slap with the flat of his hand. It galloped off back to their lines, safe from battle. Marek pulled his bloodied sword once more and charged headlong for the nearest bandit without a thought. The blood was on him, the battle fever it was called and nothing had ever felt better in his life.

He hamstrung an outlaw, turned a sword from another and killed him with a thrust to the chest. The steel parted the boiled leather and came away bloody. More arrows filled the air as the White Fawn loosed more, felling a man with every shot. She was still mounted when Marek charged for her.

"Fawn!" he shouted. "Your death is here!" She smiled and turned her horse away. A shadow fell over him, and the sword followed with it. Marek's blade flew up to meet him, turning it away then followed with a thrust and cut. The outlaw was tall and deathly gaunt, a dirtied red scarf wrapped around his long neck. His eyes were two dark bits amidst a sallow, tight face, the skin drawn and leathery. A mane of straw colored hair fell to his shoulders, dirty and unkempt.

"Oswyn Thrice-Hanged?" queried Marek as he circled him. The outlaw nodded.

"The Stranger be damned, death has a name." he feigned a thrust then cut for Marek's neck. His blade leapt to meet it, the steel ringing loudly. They parted and kissed again, then Marek swept aside the blade to deliver a vicious strike for his unarmored head. Though tall and gaunt, the robber knight was deft, dancing backwards before renewing his attack. Half a dozen blows came and went, each impact jarring through Marek's arm and shoulders. Growing heavy in his hands, his sword was slower with each parry and strike. He needed an opening or else this was his end, in the Kingswood at the hands of a shameless robber knight.

Taking advantage of the reprieve, Marek renewed his attack, striking high then left then right. The robber knight was forced back as the young squire matched blow for blow, ignoring the jarring in his arms. Sweat beaded down his back and chest, the plate and mail heavy and slick. Oswyn parried the incoming strike and pirouetted out the way and aimed for Marek's back.

Turning on his heel, Marek's steel turned away the blade and the surprise on his face was the moment he needed. He hamstrung the bandit, dropping him to one knee as blood poured from the unprotected joint. As Oswyn fell, Marek brought his blade up and with his remaining strength, took the robber knights head off with a single sweep. The headless corpse jerked then toppled, the head rolling away in a spray of dark blood.

When the trumpets blew, Marek found himself propped against a tree. His sword was at his feet, bloodied and nicked. Men lay dead all around him, bandits and soldiers alike. Horses were ownerless and some were dying, their horrific screams worse than any man. Broken spears jutted from the ground and corpses all around, and arrows poked up like wood and feather flowers. Blood and shit hung in the air, mingled with stale sweat and smoke. He watched a wounded bandit skewered in the back as he pleaded for help and felt nothing for him. The thundering of hooves brought Marek from his daze as fresh men arrived to the field. Unbloodied and clean, their swords sheathed and spears upright.

Amidst the chaos, the proud figure of Ser Arthur Dayne walked like a ghost. His greatsword was bloody and his once white, scaled armor was dented and spattered with blood. Picking up a fallen banner, he raised it and stuck it in the ground, displaying the snowy field of the Kingsguard. The cheer was deafening

"The singers never talk of this part, the corpses in the dirt and blood in the air. " A voice said above him. Marek looked up into the strong blue eyes of Ser Barristan Selmy, his white armor dirtied and bloodied. His light blonde hair was matted with sweat, his helm hanging from his swordbelt. The famed knight picked up Marek's blade and offered it, hilt first. Pulling himself up, Marek took it and sheathed it.

"A knight's blade is his life, squire. Though the battle may be done and the foe vanquished, never leave it far from your hand." he said not unkindly. Marek only nodded and after a moment, found the strength to answer.

"Thank you, Ser. It was said that my father holds you high regard." Was all Marek could think of.

"And who is your father, young squire?" asked Selmy.

"Marten Severus, Warlord of House Severus. You and he fought together on the Stepstones, bloodied the Golden Company and won everlasting glory." He watched the knight consider this for moment before answering.

"Short of the Kingsguard, there was never a finer sword, your father. From what I saw, his skill passed to you. What is your name?"

"I am Marek and nothing was passed to me, Ser. All that we have, we have earned. Nothing was given and so nothing can be taken." Marek replied fiercely, echoing his father's words. This seemed to please Ser Barristan and he nodded.

"Wise words, young Marek. You gave a good account off yourself here and you risked your life to defend a wounded knight. Bold and courageous, the makings of a true knight." he smiled tiredly. Marek was stunned into silence; the greatest warrior in all the Realm had praised him and all he could offer in return was a mute's reply.

Luckily, he was saved by the call of trumpets and horns. Marek followed the knight's eyes to where a pair of men-at-arms were escorting a peasant from the center of the village to where Ser Arthur sat on a tree stump. "Prepare yourself for another lesson and come. You will see the strength of these bandits wither away." Nodding, Marek could barely contain the excitement of not only meeting Barristan the Bold but speaking with him and receiving his praise. _What Father would say_ , he thought before dismissing it, knowing he would likely say nothing. Falling into step next to Ser Barristan, he tried to ignore the looting already taking place.

Men-at-arms and levies in varied colors and badges rifled through the dead, taking anything they deemed valuable. Fingers were relieved of rings, charms and baubles were stuffed quickly away and the dead left with nothing.

"Ser, is right to loot the dead?" Marek asked. Wearily, Ser Barristan shook his head.

"This is the way of war and has been since the days of the First Men. These men have shed blood and claim their reward. It is likely all they will get for service in this campaign. The high lords receive the glory and the lion's share of the plunder while the fighting men take what they can carry." Out of the corner of his eye, he spied his brother Jason, plate and mail bloody from battle, relieving a bandit of silver studded belt and the inlaid sheath along with it. He stopped and raised his eyes to his twin and only scowled, before returning to his spoils.

Marek felt shame for offending his brother and the realization that Jason hated him. They had never felt this way about one another, but was it too late? Try as he might, he could not see any way to appease Jason and bring them back to their former affections, not without compromising his own achievements in the yard and in battle. The shame melted away and anger replaced it, a hot fury that rose and would not be placated.

 _Very well, brother. You want your glory everlasting? Then you will have it._


	8. Fire and Blood

Ser Barristan rode through the village with Marek at his side until they came to the center. On a weirwood stump sat Ser Arthur Dawn as resting next to his leg, pale and flawless yet deadly sharp. Before him, a man knelt who named himself the village ealdorman. A small and fleshy man whose face was hidden by a scraggy beard, his clothes were a bad fit and seemed stitched together by several bits of clothing and leather. The pair dismounted and joined in the assembly of knights and men-at-arms.

"You see, Ser, thems' outlaws demanded all we had swordpoint n' paid nary a copper. When we refused, that Smiling Knight laughed then hanged the smithy and gave his daughters to his men." The tears had made swaths through the dirt on his face, making him even more pitiful looking. Marek could not help but feel sorry for him; the smallfolk on his father's lands seemed noble by comparison.

"He was no true knight, ealdorman, just a thief and a brigand. I cannot give life to those slain but I can compensate your material losses." Ser Arthur spoke clearly and without preamble, his Dornish drawl barely noticeable.

"Eh?" the man looked puzzled

"Gold, my good man. Whatever these outlaws have taken from you, we will pay their worth. My men will also require supplies; fodder for the horses and they will need to be shod. For these, I am prepared to pay." Ser Arthur stood and waved over two serving man, a chest of oak and banded iron between them. They set it before the ealdorman and Ser Arthur opened it, revealing a mound of gold dragons.

"There is a thousand dragons in there, ample recompense for your losses." Marek watched the man's eyes go wide as boiled eggs then throw himself at the feet of Ser Arthur. Not a moment had passed when the knight gently pulled the ealdorman to his feet. Marek bit back his surprise, a thousand dragons could rebuild this village and half a dozen others.

"I will need to know more of these outlaws. You say they have come through before so they must have a camp nearby." His light purple eyes bored into the man who wiped away several more tears.

"Ser, everyone knows where the Brotherhood camps. Across the stream not a day's ride, west there be an old weirwood circle. There, those thievin' bastards sing and drink and enjoy our foods." A murmur went through the surrounding knights and men-at-arms, evidently troubled by the close proximity of the outlaws.

"We must attack now!" urged one voice.

"Surround and hang 'em by their guts!" shouted another. Belong long, the assembled parties erupted into a chorus of anger and commands, all of them shouting for blood. He thought of his master-at-arms, old Ser Lyonel Ruttiger. _When blood is in the air, blood will carry the day. Men will to seek to spill and shed it at every opportune moment._ Having crossed swords with the Brotherhood, Marek could not blame them for wanting to take the fight to them, but Ser Lyonel had always advised caution to temper boldness.

"Send a party of riders.." he found himself saying. When he realized no one heard him, he whistled loudly to cut through the air. Silence fell over them and heads were turned, their eyes blazing in anger at the young squire.

"Who are you boy, to whistle at men like dogs?" demanded one knight with a purple unicorn on his grey surcoat.

"Does the squire have something to say? If so, spit it out boy. Elsewise, shut your gob when real men be talking." A grizzled and boil faced man-at-arms stepped forward, wearing a brown surcoat stained by sourleaf and dirt and a rusty mail shirt.

"A party of scouts can reconnoiter across the stream, no more than a dozen men mounted. A smaller footprint leaves a small chance of discovery." he stared down the boiled face soldier, his pig-like eyes like two muddled pebbles.

"Ha! Boy gets a taste of fightin', and he thinks hisself the Dragonknight. An' who be leadin' this party, boy? You?" he jabbed a meaty finger and Marek took it, bent it upwards then swept the legs from underneath him. He went down in the dirt, grasping his finger in pain and the assembled men laughed.

"A bold squire it seems. Who do you serve?" asked Ser Arthur, the crowd hushing as he rose.

"Ser Jared Santagar, my lord, in service to Starfall." he replied, swallowing hard.

"You crossed swords and slew Osywn Thrice-Hanged. Though a common outlaw, none could deny his swordsmanship. To best him, you must possess some skill yourself." Ser Arthur raised an eyebrow, and next to him Ser Barristan chuckled.

"I practice every day, my Lord. A blade is only as good as the man swinging it." He remembered the first lesson of Ser Lyonel.

"A fine lesson, indeed. Tell me, would you lead this scouting party to find our enemy?" the Kingsguard knight was sincere, offering him his own command. Before he could answer, Ser Jared Santagar stepped up for him.

"You'll have to pardon my squire, Ser Arthur. Though skilled, he is much too young to command more seasoned men in battle. If you would do me the honor, I shall command this scouting party." He bowed his head slightly, and Marek felt his face redden in anger. Ser Jared had always pushed him to achieve greater things, to be ambitious and always honor the chivalric code and to never dishonor either foe or friend.

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to bury his dagger in his treacherous stomach. Looking up at the knight he had been his man over the last year, Marek saw that Ser Jared wanted the glory for himself and no other. _Perhaps Jason should have squired for him, how alike they are._

Ser Arthur looked Marek one last time, the nodded at Jared Santagar.

"Very well, Ser. Pick a dozen men and ride out within the hour." He gestured to the village ealdorman. "Give this man a fresh horse, as he will act as your guide. Return by nightfall tomorrow and report to me at once." With his cloak swirling, Ser Arthur turned and headed off, Barristan the Bold at his side. Feeling there was no reason to remain, Marek left for their camp, biting back the rage that was burning within him.

He did not remember reaching their camp and erecting both his tent and Ser Jared's, nor scouring his mail and whetting his blade as the day went on and the camp became alive. Somewhere, he had removed his own breastplate and mail, his tunic stained with sweat and blood though he let it be. Sometime later, Ser Jared came upon him and inspected his mail and replaced it, handing off his dirtied and bloodied one.

"Be sure that one is scoured and shines like the day it was forged. We must look our best for the battle tomorrow.

"Right away, Ser." was all the reply Marek could manage. As he turned, Jared put a hand on his shoulder.

"Lad, these men wouldn't follow you, no matter how many of these brigands you had slain today. How many was it, by chance?" he asked sincerely, his tired brown eyes meeting his own.

Marek thought for a moment before answering.

"The Thrice-Hanged makes five, Ser."

Jared nodded thoughtfully.

"A fine first action but it is just that, your first. The men I picked have all faced battles before, hard men all. Though the smell of grass may be gone from you, you are still but a squire." He climbed on his horse and donned his helm the visor still up. "You will remain here till I return, lad. Get yourself fed and see to our arms and armor. They will be plenty of glory to go round yet." Putting the spurs to his mount, he rode off as the dozen picked men joined in.

Marek watched the party ride out in the wood, a mixed force of knights and men-at-arms in boiled leather and soiled tunics. Food went untouched but he was parched and so he gathered the water skins as dusk was falling and headed for the stream. Campfires were lit as soldiers gathered around them, many of them hoisting the carcasses of boars and deer on spits. The aroma of the venerable feasts did little to sway him, as did the sound of songs that flowed across the camps.

"... _the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel…"_

"… _came the rope, to string up Black Robin_.." He passed another campfire where a half a dozen men in checkered green and white tunics and leather jerkins, the badge of a sword and a boar's head in yellow on their breasts. They began to sing to the sound of pipes and a fiddle, a lively tune and easy on the years. Rough and uncouth men they clearly were and each of them bore straight, uniformed scars across their cheeks, some had one and others had two and three.

" _Our 'ppretice Pate may now refuse_

 _To scour his angry father's shoes_

 _Now he's free to march and play_

 _Over the dales and far away_

 _O'er the dales and O'er the Wall_

 _Through Oldstones, Tarth and Starfall_

 _King Aerys commands n' we obey_

 _Over the dales and far away"_

The song ended with the clanking of mugs and raucous laughter, and Marek couldn't help but grin. It made him think of his time as a deckhand aboard the Salty Rain, the hard days and nights below deck. He had learned many bawdy jokes and shanties, but those were made for the sea, not for marching. Still, he liked the tune and made it a point to learn more.

"A fine song, where is that from?" he asked the soldiers who, though older and grizzled, looked on him welcomingly.

"From all over, young squire. See, the words are from places across the Seven Kingdoms where us men and all have fought at one time or t'other. By your accent, you be a Westerner and nobly born at that." replied the fiddler, who had led the tune. Thin as a leek with a salt and pepper beard, thinning brown hair and kind eyes, Marek marked him for at least fifty.

"You can tell all that from how a man speaks?" replied Marek, intrigued.

"How a man speaks will tell you everything you need to know, especially how to trounce him soundly!" laughed a big fellow with arms like a bull and the shoulders to match, the heft of a great axe peeking over his left one.

"I am Marek Severus, of Swordhall. Whose men are you?" he expected some great lord or landed knight, a man who afford fighting men all his own.

"Well met, young Marek. I am Thalen of the Reach and these fellows be the Wild Company, for we march and fight and fuck like wild men!" the singer howled and his men joined in. "And we belong to no man, save ourselves. For gold and glory, 'we go where the fighting is', as is our battle cry." Marek had heard of sellswords and their ill repute, but decided he liked these men all the same.

"You name yourselves a company, but I count only six. Have that many you fallen?" he decided to take a knee beside their fire and mug was thrust in his hands. It was warm and smelled of apples mixed with queer spices and as he sipped it, he welcomed the warmth spreading through his chest.

"Over the years, aye but our company's numbers change like the seasons. One campaign we might be six, other times we might be sixty. You march and go as you please so long as you abide by the code." Thalen replied, turning over the spitted roast.

"Aye, the Code of the Company." the men grumbled and raised their mugs.

"And what are the tenets of the Code?" asked Marek, smiling.

"'Conduct yourself well in battle and never show them your back, never steal from your brothers and only from the enemy, and that only if you are starving. And of course, all plunder is to be shared equally among the company for we are brothers by bond, if not by blood." recited Thalen and downed the remains of his cider.

"Fine words to live by." agreed Marek as he drank deeply. One of the Company, the great bear with the axe refilled his mug as soon it was empty.

"Word is 'round the fires, you took the head of Oswyn the bloody Hanged. Say it was a rare and bloody fight, it was." the big fellow regarded him carefully, sizing him up. The clash of steel rang in Marek's head, the dead eyes and sallow skin of Osywn's head as it rolled away stuck in his mind.

"We's heard from some knights and men in Lord Brax's service, you served him up right and fuckin' proper!' laughed one of the company, a spear-thin man with flaxen hair tied back with a silken ribbon.

"Killed half a dozen 'fore the thing was done! Must be a sight to fuckin see with that sword o' yours!" chimed in another, cider soaking his beard.

"Aye, he is dead." was all he could muster up.

"Killin' a man is nothing to shirk at, lad. You take all a man has, his hopes, his dreams and his fears and all he will ever like to have. When it gets down to the grit, it be either you or him. Well done, squire." They all raised their mugs in salute, waiting for him. He was oddly touched by the sentiment of total strangers, a common bond forged in battle. Straightening himself up, he saluted them and drank deeply.

A hand clapped on his shoulders.

"Yes, well done indeed. But what business does a noble squire have with a lot like this?" asked a rich voice behind, and nobly born at that. Quickly standing as the hand came away, Marek faced a man both odd and truly frightening. He noticed that the men of the Wild Company had fallen silent.

He was tall and broad shouldered, dressed not in the accouterments of a knight but a long flowing robe of midnight blue and decorated with whorls of silver. Around his waist was a sash of cloth-of-gold, a decorative longsword at his hip and high boots of finely tooled red leather came up to his knees. Eyes of deep purple that marked him as the blood of Old Valyria that glittered in the firelight made him mad with some exotic fever, high cheekbones and a high brow only furthered his noble blood, marred by the spiderweb of scars across the left side of his face. From his scalp flowed a thick man of midnight black hair with braids around the crown.

"Only to make merry. Are these your men?" asked Marek, steeling himself as befitting a Severus of Swordfall.

The stranger looked at him amusingly, one callused hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Aye, they are mine and shall be until I die of some foeman's blade or my own madness." he smiled, revealing perfect white teeth yet Marek found something sinister in the act. "I am called Morvan Natarys, of the Free City of Lys. You are Marek, son of Marten, the Warlord of House Severus. Already, your name is known here. Fame achieved young is fame achieve for life."

"Do you know my father?" he asked warily.

"Only by name and reputation. We fought on the Stepstones though I doubt he would know of me." he replied, his hands sweeping the air. I do not like this one, he is too cold by a half. "Did my men welcome you as a noble guest?" he circled him, his eyed never leaving Marek.

"They welcomed me as a soldier, my birth mattered little."

"Ah, but it is our birth that sets us apart from these rabble, though good men they be. Never let fool yourself into thinking you're one of them and they will never be fooled into attempting to be one of us. It seems a lesson is in order." Before Marek reach for his, Natarys hands moved with surprising speed and drew his blade, whirled and opened Thalen's cheek. He howled as he dropped his lute to clutch his face, blood welling through his fingers. Around him, the men of the Company remained still and it made sense to Marek.

They've seen it all before, and its been done to them all, to a man.

Natarys regarded his blade for a moment, holding it to the fire light.

"Mark the ripples all the blade, squire. Do you know what kind of steel this is?" he asked, calm as still water. Turning the blade over, he saw the markings in the dark grey, almost black steel. He knew it all too well and knew how dangerous it was.

"Valyrian steel. A fine weapon but was the demonstration necessary?" he asked, keeping both rage and disgust in check. Natarys laughed, chilling Marek to the bone as he swiftly sheathed his sword.

"A good leader must show a bit of madness now and then, reminds the rank and file to fear him more than the enemy. It was a pleasure to meet you, young Marek. Perhaps we'll bandy a word some other time." he bowed his head slightly, and Marek found himself hurrying to the stream. He wanted nothing more than to fill the skins and return to the safety his tent and fire.

Kneeling to fill the skins, he heard a rustle in the bushes and turned as a man leapt from the dark and slammed into him, flattening him to the ground. His breath was hot and stale, reeking of cheap liquor. Knocking aside Marek's raised hands with a cudgel, he jammed the haft down on his throat.

"Disgrace me, you noble-born shit!" roared the boil faced man-at-arms in the stained brown surcoat. His meaty hands were pressing the cudgel down and Marek began to see red spots around his hands. He pummeled the man's side but hit only mail and when he tried to gouge his hands, they were bitten hard and broke skin. "Think you be the only one who can gutter fight!? You'll be feeding the fuckin flies come morning!" The cudgel jammed down harder and Marek scrambled for anything around him, clawing at the grass and dirt.

When he felt something, he grasped it and with his remaining strength, smashed the rock into his attacker's teeth. He cried out and released the cudgel to spit out a tooth and Marek was on him, sucking in air each time he hit him. The impact jarred up his hand and arm, each blow reducing the angry, boil-ridden face to ruin. Warm blood splashed his face, some of it on his tongue.

After a while, he could not raise his hand anymore and Marek dropped the rock, sticky and slippery with blood and bits of skin. Pulling himself to his feet, he threw his head in stream and scrubbed with his sleeve on the blood from his face as best he could. Then he grabbed the dead man's boots and hauled him into the flowing stream. With a push, the corpse was taken by the current and began to float away.

His heart still pounding, he ran back to the camp, leaving the water skins behind.


End file.
